


stoned in paradise

by soulofme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Romance, Getting Together, M/M, Mentions of Hunk/Pidge, Teenagers, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 05:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15678855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: If there's a limit to desire, Keith would like to find it sometime this century.[Keith runs away from his problems instead of facing them, but Shiro doesn't like being ignored.]





	stoned in paradise

**Author's Note:**

> It’s two am and I’m crying over sheith so have this hot mess
> 
> Title from Stolen Dance by Milky Chance because I listened to it 70 times while writing this

Through a haze of cigarette smoke, Keith can see his classmates sitting a good couple of feet away from him. Their voices come to him in waves, slow and steady like the ocean at low tide. He feels warm, too-stuffy in an oversized flannel he’s sure doesn’t belong to him.

He always imagined falling in love would be like a cliché high school move. Shy glances in the hallway, sneaking out past curfew, prom night, trying to cop a feel without getting caught. Something like that.

It’s entirely unrealistic, when he compares it to the real thing. If there's a limit to desire, Keith would like to find it sometime this century. The movies don’t cover that bit, always making it seem like it’s _great_ to keep feeling and feeling. Even if you never get anything in return. It makes sense, though. Nobody wants to watch an hour of someone brooding over their own self-inflicted misery.

His classmates sound louder, suddenly. It’s because Lance is sitting beside him, his gel-slicked hair sticking up at odd angles. He wiggles the blunt from between Keith’s fingers and stuffs it in his mouth, coughing when he takes in too much too fast.

He says, “Feeling better?”

And Keith hums. He stretches out his legs, feeling the pins and needles gathering in the soles of his feet. He feels lazy. He feels like shit. Weed always makes him feel a little more miserable, a little more desperate to cry into a pillow, write in his non-existent diary, bitch about the injustice of the world to any listening ear he can find.

He doesn’t do any of that. Small mercies.

He bottles it up. He plays it off. He pretends he doesn’t feel a goddamn thing.

It works, short-term, but it’s something.

“Wanna go?” Lance asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulders. His eyes are half-lidded. Thank fuck for Hunk, ever the responsible one. He puked for an hour the first time he took a shot. It’s why he’s always sober.

Keith gets up and hobbles down the hall, the voices behind them melting into nothing. When he glances out of the window, the horizon is pink. It’s late. Early. Whatever.

Hunk is already waiting for them, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He smells like coffee when he steps forward to catch Keith before he smacks into the ground. Lance laughs obnoxiously loud.

“Hey, buddy,” Hunk says. His voice is warm. Keith wants to fall asleep to it. “You doing alright?”

Keith doesn’t answer. Hunk leads him to the car while Lance whistles behind them. Keith imagines he’s skipping, high out of his mind.

“I’m hungry,” Lance announces, strapping himself into the passenger seat. He twists to face Keith, arching a brow. “You hungry, mullet boy?”

“Starving,” Keith gets out, watching with sick satisfaction as Lance squeals indignantly about the spittle on his cheek.

“Hey,” Hunk says, with some kind of edge to his voice, and Lance huffs and turns around to the face the front.

Hunk takes them to McDonald’s. He nurses an iced coffee while Lance decimates a McMuffin. Keith picks the egg out of his and dusts crumbs off his fingers.

“So,” Hunk starts. He’s chewing on the edge of his straw. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yup,” Keith says. “I’m McGreat.”

Lance snorts, bits of half-chewed sausage flying out of his mouth. Hunk wipes it up with a napkin and only a slight look of disgust.

“You’re McHigh,” Lance corrects. He laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day. It’s not saying much, considering the weird shit Lance finds absolutely _hilarious_.

“You’re also McHigh,” Keith mutters. Hunk narrows his eyes.

“You better McStop before I leave you both here,” he says. He’s not threatening, not when his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

Lance goes through another McMuffin. Keith hands his over when the smell of cheese makes him want to hurl. Hunk shuffles them out to the car like he’s an exhausted middle-aged father desperate to dump his children off on his wife and drive away to play golf. When Keith says so, Hunk looks positively offended.

“I would never,” he says. It’s been five minutes. He’s still pissed. “I love you guys.”

“Pidge would kill us if you dumped us on her,” Lance says sagely. “Don’t you think she’d kill us, Keith?”

“Straight-up murder us,” Keith agrees. Pidge is generally angry about their endeavors, mostly because of Hunk and his inability to deny Lance of anything he wants.

Keith’s not sure how _that_ whole relationship started, but they work well. Compatibility is key. Pidge completes Hunk and Hunk completes Pidge.

Keith’s not jealous. Really. They’re his best friends. They’re happy, especially together. Which is nice. They deserve it. They’re good people and all that. Good people get good things.

Maybe Keith’s not a good person. Maybe that’s why he’s eternally suffering.

Hunk drops Lance off first, where Veronica is already waiting on the porch for him. She shoots up like a rocket and snags him around the ear, cursing at him in a colorful mix of Spanish and English. When she finally shoves him through the front door and steps towards Hunk’s car, Keith can see the worried look in her eyes begin to fade.

“Thank you for bringing him home,” she says, sounding exhausted. Guilt spikes in Keith’s gut. Maybe she waited up all night for him, wondering when Lance would come home, if he was alright or not.

He thinks of his own mother, then, and wants to punch himself in the jaw.

“He’s kinda high,” Hunk says with a wince. Veronica’s eyes narrow a bit. Keith can practically hear Hunk gulp. “But other than that he’s fine!”

“Yeah, well, thanks,” Veronica says. She peers into the backseat, her eyebrows arching when she sees Keith. “Oh, hey. I didn’t see you there.”

Keith snorts. “I wasn’t trying to be seen.”

Veronica nods and steps back.

“You two should probably get home.”

“Good idea,” Hunk says, laughing nervously. “Man, my parents are gonna kill me.”

Veronica smiles and waves as they pull away from the curb. Hunk glances at him from the rearview mirror.

“Keith?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Keith shifts in his seat. The leather creaks beneath him.

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” Hunk says, looking back at the road. “But you look like you needed to hear it.”

There’s a lump in Keith’s throat. He shakes his head and stares out of the window, at the trees that blur past them.

“Thanks.”

Hunk hums. It doesn’t take him long to get to Keith’s house. Sometimes Keith resents the fact that he lives so close to Lance, considering how he always insists they walk to the bus stop together. But it’s nice. Lance is his best friend too. Keith would never say it to his face, though.

Keith unbuckles himself and stretches out his arms. The pleasure he gets from those first few hours of being high is wearing off.

Wore off a long time ago, if he’s being totally honest with himself.

Keith slides out of his seat. His legs feel like lead when he pokes his head into the passenger side window.

“See you later, man,” Keith tells him. Hunk nods.

“Hey, Keith?” he says, before Keith can even take a step.

“Yeah?”

Hunk smiles sadly.

“Take it easy, alright?”

“Yeah,” Keith says. He’s too exhausted to come up with a snappy comeback, something totally out of line but harsh enough to make whoever hears it stop giving a shit about him. “I will.”

He trudges to the front door. It takes three tries to get the key successfully in the lock, and another two to turn it. His house is freezing when he steps inside. Keith yanks his flannel off, leaving him in a thin tee-shirt, and tosses it aside. He’s grateful for the cold.

“Keith?”

Krolia comes around the corner. She presses her hands to his face, wrinkles her nose when she gets a whiff of him. Sweat, booze, and weed. Teenage angst personified. Not the best of smells, Keith’s sure.

She crushes him into a hug anyway.

“You scared me,” she whispers. “You didn’t pick up your phone. I was about to go searching for you.”

“You’re not mad.”

“Oh, I’m pissed,” she says. Keith bites his cheek, hiding a laugh. “But we’ll talk about it later. You don’t look so good.”

She pulls back and rubs her thumb across his cheek. It’s only then that he realizes he’s crying.

“Oh, honey,” she whispers.

He twists out of her grasp, shaking his head.

“I’m fine,” he says. It comes off as defensively as it always does.

“Alright,” Krolia concedes. She steps back, giving him room. “Get some rest.”

Keith goes upstairs. His head is pounding when he gets in his room. It’s exactly how he left it last night, messy sheets and the radio on low, blasting the alternative garbage he listens to when he’s feeling particularly shitty. He yanks the power cord out of the socket, leaving himself in uncomfortable silence.

Keith strips down to his boxers and climbs beneath the sheets. They’re cold. So cold it feels good, good enough that he shuts his eyes and falls into a restless sleep.

He wakes up at two in the afternoon. His mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. There’s this horrid, sour taste on his tongue. Cheap beer, cigarettes, the last remnants of weed. His headache’s even worse.

He dresses in last night’s clothes and stumbles downstairs. His mother’s standing at the stove, ladling soup into a bowl. She turns when Keith drops himself into a chair at the dining room table.

“You’re up,” she says. She pushes the bowl towards him with a bottle of ibuprofen. “This should help.”

Keith swallows down two pills dry and doesn’t blow on his soup before he stuffs his spoon into his mouth. Chicken noodle. Hot as shit. Immensely satisfying.

He sinks down into his chair when Krolia sits in front of him.

“Where were you?” she asks. The standard fare for parents, Keith decides. Where were you, who were you with, do you know what time it is?

He’s heard it a thousand times.

“Some party. Lance invited me. Hunk drove us home. He didn’t drink. He never does.”

The soup’s lost all its flavor. Keith shoves the bowl away, ignoring how his mother’s eyebrows furrow.

“Honey,” she says. Keith can’t be pissed. Not when she talks like that. She reaches for his hand. “What happened?”

He pulls away. He shuts her out. He says, “Nothing, Mom.”

It’s not true. Not even close.

On the outside, though, it is. Nothing _really_ happened. There’s no specific event that Keith can point a finger at and say is causing his suffering. If there’s anything Keith knows, it’s that love is a collection of events, of instances leading up to an end, and each and every single one of them hurts.

His mother leans back in her seat. She’s not buying it. She never buys his shit. She doesn’t push. Not right away. Come tonight, she’ll be down his throat about it. Tomorrow morning, if he’s lucky. Maybe he’ll sneak away again. Maybe he’ll fly off to somewhere no one can reach him.

He snorts at the thought.

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

Krolia lets him go.

Keith lets the hot water hit his skin until it goes cold. He’s bright red when he steps out. He brushes his teeth and spits the taste of the misery out of his mouth.

He drops himself onto his bed, towel wrapped firmly around his hips, and scrolls through his phone. He stops when he sees he has a text message reminder, one that isn’t from Hunk or Lance. Hell, it’s not even Pidge, telling him that he’s an idiot.

“Shiro.”

It hurts like hell to say his name. Keith sits up straight.

_Hunk told me about last night. You ok?_

Sent four hours ago. Keith’s phone buzzes to life in his palm. Another reminder. One new message. Takashi Shirogane.

_Keith? I hope you’re okay. Text me when you get this._

Three hours ago.

_Keith. Talk to me._

Sent an hour ago.

Keith clicks his phone off and tosses it aside. Throws his arms over his head, blocks out the light, and mentally runs away from his problems.

He doesn’t remember the first time he met Shiro. He became so firmly ingrained into Keith’s circle of friends that sometimes he forgets that Shiro had been the new kid. A charming rich boy from Long Island.

No one knows how the hell he got to Arizona. All they know is he’s a tall glass of water and they’re, well, in a desert.

The first thing Keith realizes about Shiro is that he’s unbelievably nice. He’s Hunk-level kind, which is weird. Keith thinks he’s even worse. He’s got this idea that he can help everyone, even if they don’t want to be helped.

Lance had swooned the first time Shiro broke up a fight.

“You see that?” he’d said, pointing at Shiro with hearts in his eyes. “Get you a Shiro, Keith.”

Keith had almost choked on a fry. He can still feel Hunk’s heavy palm on his back, hear Pidge’s short, aborted laughter.

Everything promptly went to shit after that. Shiro peeled away Keith’s layers, found out about his dad’s death, about wanting to be half as brave as him but not knowing how to be. He’d held Keith when he cried. He hadn’t cried over his father in years. Gotten close, but never quite there.

Then, because Shiro had some ridiculous hero complex, he’d said something along the lines of _I’m always here_.

That sealed the deal. It was the final nail in Keith’s coffin, the blow that left him pining for the next four years.

And now, here they are. A month off from graduation, from having their little group splintered into five different directions.

Keith grabs the nearest pillow and screams into it.

He wakes up the next morning feeling somewhat human.

It’s Sunday. His mother’s tending to the garden, pulling weeds out of a flower bush. He doesn’t know what half of them are, but he knows she loves the smell.

“Morning,” he calls, lingering on the back porch. He feels a mosquito bite his ankle and rubs his other foot over it furiously.

“Shiro called,” Krolia says, peeling a glove off and swiping sweat off her forehead.

“Shiro called you?” Keith echoes. Krolia smiles tightly.

“He sounded worried, Keith.”

“He’s overreacting.”

“I was worried about you.”

“ _Overreacting_ ,” Keith stresses.

He could tell her right now. Lay it all out once and for all. Say, _I’m hopelessly in love with Shiro, Mom. That’s why I’m like this_.

He doesn’t, because he’s a self-loathing asshole who craves the feeling of pain a little too much.

“I’ll give him a call,” Keith says. It sounds completely insincere.

“You do that,” his mother says. There’s a sharp edge to her voice.

Keith slams the back door when he storms into the house. It’s childish. It’s satisfying.

He takes a shower, brushes his teeth, and holds his phone in his hands. Three missed calls. Takashi Shirogane, the persistent bastard.

Keith bites back a groan and shoves the phone into his pocket. It’s officially May today. The weather is unpredictable. It’s a little chilly when Keith steps outside, so he grabs the mystery flannel and throws it on. It smells like fabric softener. His mother must’ve washed it.

His bike’s still in the shop, so Keith walks. Wishes he had his headphones, so he could listen to music and make this whole thing feel less like he’s walking to the gallows.

By the time he gets to Shiro’s house, he’s too irritated to be nervous. He knocks on the door and crosses his arms while he waits. It takes Shiro a while to open it. He stands there for a few minutes, not saying anything.

And then, “You little _shit_.”

Keith’s pulled against his chest, face pressed to the meat of Shiro’s shoulder. Laundry soap. Aftershave. Home.

Keith hates himself for liking it. Shiro’s got both hands pressed to the small of his back, caging in him like he’s afraid Keith’s going to run. Maybe he will. Depends on how this conversation goes.

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t know why he keeps saying that. It’s never true.

Shiro lets go of him and lets him step inside. They linger in the doorway for a while.

“Hungry?” Shiro finally asks, stepping around him. “I can make something.”

“No,” Keith says. His stomach gurgles a bit. He ignores it. “Sorry for blanking out on you.”

Shiro’s half in the fridge, a bottle of orange juice clutched in his hand. He sets it on the counter and slams the door shut.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says.

Keith looks at him and sees the bags under his eyes, the way his bangs look ruffled, like he ran his fingers through them a thousand times.

“I went out.”

“You scared me,” Shiro says again. He settles behind the counter. Keith shuffles forward and leans against it.

“You called my mom.”

“Yeah, well. You were ignoring me,” Shiro says. His ears are red. Embarrassed. Angry. A mixture of both.

Keith rolls his eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“What’s your deal, Keith?” Shiro says then.

“Nothing. I wanted to have fun.”

“So you got high.”

“Lance got high too.”

“Lance isn’t trying to run away from his problems.”

It’s the way Shiro says it, with such authority, like he’s such an _expert_ on Keith’s motivations, that prompts him to say:

“Fuck you.”

Shiro clenches his jaw. He pours himself a glass of orange juice and chugs it down like he’s taking a shot.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Shiro sounds broken then. Now would be a good time to run. Get out of here before it gets too personal.

Keith doesn’t move.

“I can’t.”

“You _can’t_ ,” Shiro repeats, laughing in disbelief. “Keith, we’re best friends. There’s nothing you can’t tell me.”

“Nah,” Keith mutters. “Not this time.”

Shiro drums his fingers against the counter. He stares at Keith’s torso for a few torturously long seconds.

“Is that my shirt?” he asks, jerking his chin towards the flannel.

Keith stares at it, at the cuffs that fall past his knuckles and the hem that skims the middle of his thigh.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“You don’t want to talk about it,” Shiro says. He gets up to shove the juice bottle back into the fridge. “I’m doing you a favor.”

“You’re being petty.” It feels good to say it. Shiro’s brow quirks at it.

“You’re being difficult.”

Keith releases a controlled breath and grips the edge of the counter.

“Stop fucking with me.”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Shiro challenges him.

They’re at a standstill. Keith knows that. He’s got two options. Open his mouth or run. The former’s scary as shit. The latter’s safe.

He turns on his heel. Doesn’t make it far, because Shiro rounds the counter and grabs his arm.

“Don’t go,” he says. Begs, really.

“Why?”

“I want to help,” Shiro says. That goddamn hero complex.

Keith wrenches his arm free. It’s incredibly dramatic.

“Why won’t you tell me?” Shiro says. His eyes are wide. Molten silver. Ten seconds away from shedding tears.

Keith can be a heartless asshole, but not enough of one to want his best friend to cry. He chews at his cheek until he tastes blood. Weighs his options. Considers running again.

Says, “Because it’s about you.”

There’s no taking something like that back. The words hang between them for what feels like hours. Shiro’s face goes through a mix of many, many different emotions. Anger. Confusion. Sadness.

“Okay,” Shiro gets out. He sounds deceptively calm. “That’s good, Keith.”

“How the fuck is that good?” Keith snaps before he can stop himself.

“Because we can fix that,” Shiro says. He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “So. What’d I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Keith says. He’s backed into a corner. Shiro will keep pushing. Push, push, push. Push until he’s forced to confess.

“Could’ve fooled me.” It’s meant to be a joke, clearly, but Shiro’s expression is too severe for that.

Keith crosses his arms. Grits his teeth.

“I wish I never met you.” He’s whispering. Why the fuck is he whispering?

Shiro steps back like Keith punched him. He’s definitely going to cry now.

“Why?” Shiro asks, like he can’t imagine Keith would even say something that.

“I wouldn’t be in love with you, then.” Short, sweet, and to the point.

Shiro gapes at him, jaw dropped, eyes blown wide. He snaps his jaw shut with a click and rakes his fingers through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, and then he’s reaching for Keith and crushing their mouths together.

It hurts. Keith tastes blood. His eyes are open, which is creepy. He can see how Shiro’s eyebrows are furrowed, feel how his thumbs are digging into the spaces behind each of Keith’s ears.

He pulls away then, pressing their foreheads together. Keith licks his lips. Minty toothpaste. Orange juice. Shiro.

“What the fuck?”

“You’re an idiot,” Shiro says firmly. He slides one hand into Keith’s hair and the other onto the curve of his hip. “My idiot.”

“Are you drunk?” Keith asks automatically. “Was that really orange juice?”

“I love you too,” Shiro murmurs. His eyes are closed. He lips press against the tip of Keith’s nose. “God, I thought you hated me.”

“What?” Keith twists out of his hold. “What the hell?”

“What?”

“You don’t love me,” Keith says, waving his arms. This is crazy. Shiro is fucking crazy. “That’s not possible.”

Shiro gives him an unamused look. “Why not?”

“Because you’re _you_ ,” Keith says, “and I’m _me_. We’re not meant to be together. We’re not Pidge and Hunk.”

“Pidge and Hunk are pretty good together,” Shiro says thoughtfully. “I think they’re going to last a while.”

“Are you even listening to me, Shiro?”

“I will, when you say something that isn’t bullshit.”

“Motherfucker,” Keith barks. “You are insufferable.”

Shiro smiles. Warm and soft.

“I love you, Keith.”

Hearing the words again makes all the fight leave him. Keith feels his shoulders slump and he hangs his head, purposely looking away from Shiro’s hopeful expression.

“I didn’t want to ruin anything,” Keith mumbles.

“You were never going to.”

“Yeah, well. How was I supposed to know that?”

“You could’ve asked,” Shiro says, as if it’s entirely obvious.

“Oh, sure. And what if you didn’t feel the same?” Keith bites. “No thanks.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Shiro says. “You’re getting pissed over an impossible scenario.”

“Impossible scenario my ass,” Keith snarls. “It was likely.”

Shiro’s smile widens. “With someone else, maybe. Not with me.”

“Shiro.”

“Yeah?” he says, too quickly.

“Do you mean it?” Keith asks. He doesn’t know why his heart’s beating so damn fast.

“Of course,” Shiro says, grabbing a handful of Keith’s flannel and pulling him closer. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Keith repeats. Shiro’s eyes look too bright. “Holy fuck. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“I can,” Shiro says. “We’re in love and you’re wearing my shirt. It’s very simple, Keith.”

“This _is_ your shirt?” Keith stares down at it. “How the hell did I end up with it?”

“Not important,” Shiro decides. He leans down again, closer and closer till he’s breathing against Keith’s lips. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Will you talk to me next time?” Shiro whispers. “No matter what it is?”

“Yeah,” Keith says. Means it, a hundred and ten percent. “Promise.”

Shiro beams at him and pulls him into another kiss. It’s soft. A cliché high school movie kiss.

Keith likes it. He likes it a metric fuckton.

“I’m sorry, Shiro.”

“I know,” Shiro says, pecking him on the cheek. He pulls away with a mischievous grin. “Now you have to let me take you on a date.”

“What?”

“You’ve gotta prove it to me,” Shiro says, crossing his arms. “Unless…you’re _not_ sorry?”

“Insufferable,” Keith reminds him. Shiro chuckles.

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” Keith says, exaggerated sigh and all. Shiro looks offended for all of ten seconds before he starts laughing. Cackling, really. It’s kind of gross.

Keith hates it. Likes it. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

They’re in love. Keith’s wearing Shiro’s shirt.

And that’s all there is to it.


End file.
